


let me stand by you.

by mouthymandalorian



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 18:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30009270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouthymandalorian/pseuds/mouthymandalorian
Summary: after losing his ship and handing grogu over to the jedi, there is only one place din djarin wants to be. and maybe, once he can let himself feel safe, he can start to heal the hole in his heart.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Omera
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	let me stand by you.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr.](https://mouthymandalorian.tumblr.com/)  
> [companion fan art piece](https://www.instagram.com/p/CMVvKp5D2Up/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) by @thepoisonofgod on instagram. <3
> 
> written for mandomera week 2021. hope y'all enjoy it.

Mandalorian. Mando. Bounty hunter. Mand’alor.

Father. 

Din Djarin had many titles. He didn’t want most of them, and didn’t know if he could really call himself a Mandalorian anymore. Not in the way he once had. 

“You’re a Child of the Watch,” Bo-Katan had said when they’d met. He’d hated the pitying, pained expression on her face. He didn’t need anyone’s pity.

And he damn sure didn’t need to be the ruler of a planet he’s never stepped foot on. 

The hurt, the grief, the turmoil inside of him proved hard to reckon with. And he was so angry with himself for feeling any of it--he’d known the mission from the beginning. Get the child back to his people; to the Jedi. 

But he’d hoped, in the most far away recesses of his mind, that people could mean person. Could mean him. Somewhere along the journey, he had come to care more for Grogu than The Way.

Bo-Katan had pleaded with him. He was the Mand’alor now, didn’t he understand what that meant? 

“You have to come back. We have to get our home back,” she’d told him.

“I don’t have to do anything. It’s not my home,” he’d spat, throwing the darksaber to the ground, ignoring her stricken face. “I don’t care what you do. Leave me out of it.” 

“You don’t want to go to Mandalore, then?” Boba had asked him.

“Do you?” Din shot back. 

“Maybe if they paid me,” he’d said. “Where do you want to go then? Or are you with us?”

No. There was only one place he’d wanted to go. 

* * *

Omera felt the ship before she saw it when the earth shook under her feet. Grim fear gripped her heart as she stood up, balancing a basket of wheat against her hip. Ships rarely brought anything but chaos. 

The last time a ship brought anything good was when the Mandalorian and his child had come to their village. Thanks to Mando, the village had defenses. All adults could adequately handle a blaster, and the watch was properly trained. It kept the peace, but was unlikely to hold against more than passing raiders. 

Winta asked about the metal man and his green baby all the time, no matter how often Omera explained that they wouldn’t--couldn’t--see either of them again. She did not, of course, tell her daughter that the thought hurt her more than it should. After her husband’s death, she’d not let herself get close to many people. Especially men. The Mandalorian had been different, despite never learning his name or seeing his face. 

Perhaps it was that gentle demeanor wrapped in a large, imposing package. Perhaps it was the way he’d asked her how to raise a child, as bluntly as asking for a recipe. Or perhaps it was the feel of his arms wrapped around her own, correcting her aim. She only knew that his mark on her heart was indelible.

The odd, oval ship took off a few minutes after it landed. Strange, she thought, but Omera relaxed again, and the children of the village cheered as the ship took off. She smiled at them, amused at their reaction, and went about her harvesting. 

* * *

The sun was low in the sky when Din stumbled out of the darkening forest. He carried no possessions but a silver ball clutched in his fist. If he hoped to go by unnoticed, he’d failed. The children found him first, a cacophony of cheers went up, and dread flooded him. They’d ask about the baby; of course they would. He slipped the ball into his pocket. 

But he saw her as she straightened up, her long, dark hair flowing down her back. For a moment, surprise registered on her face, followed by a broad smile; eyes searching, searching. The smile wavered when she didn't find what she was looking for. When she realized he was alone, Omera moved swiftly to him then, stepping in front of the children.

“Move along, go, let our guest be,” she said, kind but stern, shooing the rowdy group away. Complaints floated in their wake as they marched away. Only Winta stayed behind. Omera knelt down and whispered something in the girl’s ear, and Winta’s eyes grew wide. She reached out to Din with her little arms and wrapped them around his waist, then ran away before he could react.

Omera watched her run away as she stood in front of him and said nothing; only gave a soft, sad smile full of unspoken understanding.

“I was just about to start making dinner. Would you like to join me?” she asked. 

“I would,” he said, thankful that the vocoder didn’t betray the cracks in his voice. It was the first time he’d felt safe in weeks.

* * *

Omera took his gloved hand and led him through the village, golden sunlight dancing in her chestnut hair. The villagers waved, but they, too, noticed the absence of the little green child. If they were curious, they did not let on. Everyone in this village had lost someone. They knew that often the kindest thing was to let it be. 

Her hut was cozy, and the afternoon sunlight streamed in through the open windows. She wanted to ask him if he was okay, if he needed anything, how she could help; she also knew that wouldn’t get her anywhere. He had to open up to her. So she set about the business of making stew. Washing and cutting vegetables, heating up the water. 

“May I help?” he asked. Warmth flooded her chest at his request. Normally, Omera wouldn’t hear of letting a guest help, but he needed a task. 

“Sure. Can you chop this?” she asked. 

“I think so,” he said, unsure, a little boy presented with a new and complicated chore. She showed him how, slicing the round, green vegetable in half and chopping it longways, then into smaller pieces. The end product wasn’t as refined as her technique, but he stood straight and proud when she praised his efforts.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she tried her best to ignore the heat of his large body next to hers. 

“Can you hold the pot just there?” she asked, motioning to a spot in front of the chopped vegetables. He picked it up gingerly with both hands and watched her slide the ingredients into the liquid. He shook his head.

“What?” she asked.

“I’ve just never done anything like this before,” he explained. She imagined a life with no meals cooked next to a loved one, and a deep sadness cut through her chest.

“Should be about an hour now. Would you like to sit?” she asked, and he nodded. A warm, comfortable silence enveloped the room, and his shoulders relaxed as he sat down. She swore she heard a contented sigh from under the helmet. 

For a moment they only looked at each other, and Omera absentmindedly braided a piece of her long hair. 

“My name is Din,” he said to her. 

* * *

He expected surprise, shock--something. 

Instead, she said, “Nice to meet you, Din.” 

His name on her lips was more beautiful than it had any right to be. 

Omera put her chin on her palm and waited, and he found himself wanting to speak. Wanting to put this feeling that he’d had for weeks into words. 

“I found his people—well, they found us,” he said. 

“Is he okay?” she asked gently. Din didn’t think there was anyone else in the galaxy that could make him feel this safe.

He told her everything. He told her about Ahsoka, about the Seeing Stone, about Moff Gideon, about the Jedi who saved them all and took his son. About how his son chose to leave. He talked until his throat hurt.

“I know that was the best thing for him. I know that. He needs to train. I just…why wasn’t I good enough? It’s stupid because he’s not really mine—”

“That’s not true,” Omera interrupted. “He is yours. It doesn’t matter what he chose, he’s your son. I saw that when you were here with him. He loves you, and you love him. Even when you didn’t realize it. Our children leave us, that’s the way of it. We do our best by them until they do. You kept him alive and cared for him and were willing to die to get him back to the Jedi. If you’re not a father, I don’t know who is.”

Her fierce eyes and conviction calmed him. Was she right? Omera reached across the table and placed her hand on top of his fist. 

“You did good, Man--Din. You did.” 

“I took my helmet off in front of a room full of people,” he said. He’d avoided saying it outloud. Saying it outloud made it more real. Omera’s strong, beautiful features twisted with concern. He remembered the last time he was here when she’d gone to do that very thing. He always thought that if the child wasn’t in danger, if she’d asked him again--he might have done it. For her.

“Why?” she asked.

“I wanted him to know my face,” he said. She squeezed his hand, then threaded her fingers through his. He reveled in her touch.

“When Winta was born, I birthed for 30 hours. She was stubborn. Didn’t want to come out. I bled for half of that time and the midwives thought I would die. When she finally came out, and I held her in my arms, I realized I would have gladly given up my life for her. We do things for our children we never expect, even when it hurts us.” 

Omera removed her hand and stood to check the pot. He missed her touch as soon as it was gone. 

“Soup’s on,” she said. “I’ll go bring a bowl to Winta so you can—” 

“You could— you could stay,” he said, voice thick with hope and fear. Omera cocked her head, expression unreadable. She filled a bowl, lost in thought. 

“Let me get Winta settled with the neighbor, and I’ll be back,” she said, balancing the full bowl of soup in both hands, darting through the door. 

Dusk had settled around the little hut. He stared out of the window. What would it be like to stay here? To give up bounty hunting? To disappear? He hunted because it was all he knew, and all he was good at, not because he had a particular taste for it. He didn’t even have a ship now. 

So lost in his thoughts, Din didn’t notice when Omera strolled back in.

* * *

When Omera returned, the sun had sunk even deeper. For a moment, she admired the purple and pink hues reflected in Din's shining silver armor. Were she a younger woman with no responsibilities, she might wish that he’d sweep her off her feet and take her on adventures. 

Not wanting to startle him, she cleared her throat. He turned to her, slow and dreamy. Omera stepped to the counter to pour two more bowls of stew, and set them on the wooden table with dull thuds. 

“Do you want me to turn around?” she asked, uncertain as to how this would work. 

“No. I broke my Creed, it doesn’t matter anymore. I just...I think I need your help.”

Omera’s stomach lurched at his pain, and a desperate curiosity filled her.

“Why me?” she asked.

“Because you know,” he said. Not even the vocoder could

hide the tremor in his voice. 

Omera stood and closed the distance between them. The hulking warrior looked up at her, but he was so small all of a sudden. Fear radiated from his body, his hands shaking in his lap.

“Do you want to do it, or should I?” she asked. 

“Can you?” 

Of course she could. 

He reached somewhere on the side, and a soft hiss signaled depressurization. Omera placed two shaking hands on the side of his helmet, recalling the last time she had done this. Her movements were slow to give him time to change his mind. She felt his hands curl around her wrists and for a moment she faltered, thinking he wanted to stop; instead, he pushed upward.

Up, up, up went the gleaming helmet until she could see soft brown curls, flattened by his helmet. Sharp, twin intakes of breath filled the air, and he looked up into her eyes. And how her heart ached. 

Omera had no expectations for his face, but he was beautiful, beautiful. Bright, expressive brown eyes gazed back at her, apprehension etched on every inch of his handsome face. A sharp, strong jaw framed plump lips, and a prominent, curved nose sat in the center. Thick eyebrows and patchy facial hair adorned his golden skin. 

She reached her hand to his face and ran a thumb over his cheekbone. 

“Wow,” she mumbled.

* * *

Din didn’t know what “wow” meant, but she was touching him, so it must have been good. It amazed him to see her so close without the black and white static view of his visor. Words failed him as he looked at her, smelled her without the helmet’s filter. He let himself inhale her presence, and tears sprung to the corner of his eyes, overwhelmed by all the sensations of her. 

Omera moved closer and wrapped her arm around his shoulder, then bent down to press her lips to the top of his head. A simple gesture, the sort that one family member might bestow to another, but the tenderness of it broke him. He leaned into her body, wrapped both arms around her waist, and let the grief, the anger, the confusion, the loneliness—everything he’d been holding onto for the last few weeks—wash over him in hot waves of tears. She put both arms around him and combed her fingers through his hair, kissing his head, whispering reassurances, staying there until the last sob faded into her tear-stained apron. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, pulling away and looking up at her. Omera frowned and knelt down in front of him, cupping his face with both hands. 

“Never apologize for your grief. Forgive yourself for having it. And forgive yourself for doing what you had to do,” she said firmly, placing her hand on the helmet. Her eyes were wet with tears, too. He set his hand over hers and just...gazed at her.

“You lost someone, too,” he said.

“My husband,” she nodded.

“How do you go on?” he muttered, afraid of the answer.

“You just do. You find things to live for. And it hurts so much at first. Days where I couldn’t move. Days where someone else had to care for Winta. But you cannot fight it. You must feel it. And you must let people help you.” 

Insects sang in the night air and silence lingered between them for a long time. The food had grown cold long ago.

“Will you help me?,” he finally asked. 

“If you’ll let me,” Omera said, and his heart leapt into his chest. 

“I missed you,” he admitted.

“I missed you, too,” she said. 

* * *

Omera’s heart hammered in her chest. Every touch was like fire on her skin. She had laid awake at night thinking of him for months, thinking of his touch, what he looked like, his warmth. He set her alight like no man had in years. 

And now his brown eyes had settled on her lips and she knew--she knew what would happen next. Maybe she should have stopped, maybe she should have waited until the crack in his heart had started to heal; but she couldn’t. She couldn’t wait any longer— not after the dreams, not after the long nights she gazed out of her window willing him to return. He stood abruptly and reached a hand out to help her stand.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered when she reached his level. She nodded because she was only human. He leaned forward and brought a hand to her jaw to tip her face to his. His lips were tentative, scared, clumsy— he hadn’t done this often and she understood that now. He was still salty with tears, and smelled like leather and oil and metal.

Stars swam behind her closed eyes and she tried to calm herself, tried to keep it chaste, but the more his lips pressed against hers, the more overwhelmed she became with him. A moan slipped out and he stiffened. Omera’s eyes flew open and she started to apologize, horrified that she’d moved too quickly, but Din only pulled her closer, one strong arm snaking around her waist and brought his other hand up to cup her head. 

His tongue slipped out, begging entrance, and she obliged. She whimpered at his strength, at her bursting heart, at the little noises coming from the back of his throat. He only came up for air when she pulled the cowl around his neck, motioning to the bed. 

He raised his eyebrows in alarm and gulped. She couldn’t help but smile at his expressiveness. The thought of a man who never learned to hide his emotions made her swoon. But she soothed him with a shake of her head. 

“It’s getting late, why don’t you stay here tonight? We can talk some more. The bed’s more comfortable,” she said. He grinned, and she thought she might faint at the way his eyes crinkled into tiny slits. 

“Can we do more of that?” he asked in a low, husky voice. 

“Whatever you need, Din,” she said, taking his hand and leading him to the bed. He set to taking off the rest of his armor, looking resolutely ahead as Omera changed into her night clothes. 

“You can turn around,” she said, turning down the blanket and crawling into bed. 

* * *

Din scrambled into bed. He didn’t know what he wanted to do. Kiss her? Hold her? Make love to her? He wanted to do all of those things, but most of all he wanted to talk to her. She sat up at the head of the bed and opened her arms, and he crawled into her embrace, head resting on her chest.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“More than,” she said.

He picked up one of her hands, marveling at the idea of just touching her skin with his own, and slipped his fingers between hers, bringing them to his lips. 

“Could we stay just like this?” he asked, looking out of the window, watching the dark night pass them by. He felt her lips on his forehead.

“Yes,” she murmured. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, realizing that he felt lighter. The heaviness in his chest had not dissipated, but for the first time since he had given his son away, he felt like it could. 


End file.
